


Knife

by pandarave12



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Break Up, Broken Engagement, Dysfunctional Family, Established Relationship, F/M, M/M, Malik is a jerk, Permanent Injury, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-08
Updated: 2015-04-17
Packaged: 2018-03-21 20:54:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3704567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pandarave12/pseuds/pandarave12
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Malik broke up with me.”</p><p>Everything goes downhill from there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to try something with these guys (I replayed AC3 and I've jumped back into the fandom). Basically about how one break up tears everything apart.

The moment he steps foot in their dorm room, Desmond knows that something is very wrong. The blinds are shut and the AC’s been turned up a notch, the humming of it far too noticeable to not be annoying. The top of the bunk bed is occupied, and that’s a rare enough sight. He walks forward slowly then cranes his neck to peer at the top.

 

“Altair?”

 

The lump on the bed shifts, one corner of the blanket peeling to uncover a portion of Altair’s face. One bright eye stares at him defiantly. Desmond stands his ground and waits.

 

“Malik broke up with me.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Altair. As in eagle?”

 

“Yes,” Altair says in the same disinterested tone he’s been using since eight o’clock. It’s nearing the end of his shift and the politeness he forces himself to have when on the job is already wearing thin. The man frowns at his brusqueness. “Your order?” Altair adds, pointedly.

 

He doesn’t have it in him to flirt back. It’s part of the job: the flirting. Mika’s the one who told him the rules. “If you’re working in the back, it means you’re not pretty enough,” he said. “If Patrick tells you you’re better off taking orders even when you can cook like goddamn Gordon Ramsay, it means you’re basically a promo girl. So you better be ready to flirt.” And he’s right. Altair’s had his fair share of giggling girls, aggressive gay men, and leering men in their fifties treating him like he’s something that ought to be objectified.

 

He doesn’t mind it; it helps pay his tuition.

 

The man is handsome in an unconventional way. He’s older than Altair, maybe already at his last year in college. Dark skinned with a sharp nose and thick eyebrows and eyes that look as bloodshot as Altair’s. He rubs at them tiredly and Altair responds with a yawn. “Coffee, black. And this pie your manager was bragging about,” the man says—no, _demands_. He pauses then stares at Altair. “When does your shift end?”

 

Altair shakes his head. “I have a final tomorrow.” And he doesn’t go home with guys or girls or anyone for that matter. He’s as pure as the driven snow, according to Ezio. Well, sexually anyway.

 

“A little presumptuous of you, but, no.” He shakes his head, smiles, and Altair blinks, startled by the sudden warmth in his cheeks. “Your shirt’s been inside out since I got here. It’s a sign that you need a break.”

 

“Oh,” Altair says intelligently. He looks down to see that Popeye’s face is, indeed, distorted by threads. He pulls at the hem of his shirt consciously then tries to save face by glaring at the man. He only stares back, unimpressed.

 

“It’s Malik,” he says, his smile smug and knowing and god, Altair _hates_ him.

 

It doesn’t deter him from taking his number, though.

 

* * *

 

 

“I never liked Malik, anyway,” Ezio announces loudly. He does everything loudly. He slams doors, throws down things, and yammers about anything under the sun, whether or not you want to hear what he has to say. Behind him, Connor shuts the door quietly then quietly takes a seat beside Desmond, the two of them watching Ezio as he raves on and on about Malik’s incompetence.

 

It doesn’t really make Altair feel any better.

 

“We were together for _four_ years, Ezio, and not once have you said anything bad about Malik,” Altair says, interrupting Ezio. His voice sounds croaked and void of emotion. It’s the first time he’s said anything longer than three words since Malik broke up with him.

 

Ezio sighs, defeated. “I’m just trying to make you feel better.”

 

“I don’t really want to talk about it.”

 

It’s true; he doesn’t want to talk about it because talking about Malik reminds him too much about him. The four years they had wasn’t a joke. They were a _thing_ , and Altair hates how sappy it sounds, but they were the kind of couple that you can’t imagine separated. They were the have-one-meal-together everyday kind of couple, the celebrate-birthdays-and-anniversaries kind. Altair had all his firsts with Malik. First kiss, first time…first break up. Hell, Malik cleared out his closet for Altair, and half his clothes are still at Malik’s place. They were the kind of couple that…well, maybe gets married at some point.

 

Ezio nods. And then he smiles, white teeth flashing dangerously. Desmond flinches even before Ezio says it. “Then let’s get drunk.”

 

Which is how Altair finds himself in Ezio’s frat house, seated on the couch with the hood of his jacket (Malik’s, originally) pulled up because Connor is watching him. He’s vulnerable, emotionally, and Altair dislikes it because he’s never felt comfortable being vulnerable in front of anyone, not even with Malik. His throat feels constricted, like he might cry. He hasn’t cried yet. He doesn’t want to do it in front of Connor.

 

“I’m sorry about Malik. Maybe you should talk to him,” he suggests. Altair snorts.

 

Connor has a thing with talking, unlike Ezio and Desmond who prefer to drown their sorrows with alcohol. Connor’s naïve like that. Talking doesn’t solve problems all the time. Altair knows. If talking solved problems then he wouldn’t be like this right now because he tried that and Malik still broke up with him.

 

 _Does talking help you reconcile with your dad?_ Altair bites his tongue, afraid that the words might come out. Just because there’s this ugly, twisted little beast in his chest, doesn’t mean Connor should get attacked by it. He’s said things like that before to Ezio and Desmond and that’s okay because one fist-fight-turned-sob-fest later, they’re back to normal. But Connor…Connor’s always been different.

 

“He blames me,” Altair admits. He stares at the space where his left ring finger used to be, at the twisted scar that nearly severed his pinky. The accident had left him with those, plus the not-quite healed cut on his mouth. It hurts terribly but they’re small pains compared to what happened to Malik.

 

Malik lost an arm. And his brother.

 

* * *

 

 

“It should have been you!”

 

It’s like a punch to his gut, like a knife twisted in his lungs. It must show in Altair’s face, because the words caught him off-guard. But Malik woke up unmerciful and he’s laying it to Altair. How dare he show his face, how dare he show up in his funeral clothes? It was his fucking car and it should have been him behind the wheel, not his baby brother, not Kadar, not Kadar, anyone but Kadar.

 

“We were drunk,” Altair says. _You gave me a ring_. “There wasn’t…there wasn’t a choice.” _You made a promise._

 

But there was a choice. They could have spent the night in the bar, in the spare room where Desmond sleeps when his shift gets too long. But Altair was the one that insisted they go home, was the one who called Kadar to drive them back because he couldn’t wait to get his hands on Malik, because he got _engaged_ , and at the time, it seemed like a big deal.

 

But Malik is glaring at him and it’s all wrong.

 

“We’re done, Altair.”

 


	2. Two

“Tell me about Altair.”

 

* * *

 

“How about that guy?”

 

Kadar points his fork at the waiter, his lips curling into an all-knowing smile when Malik’s eyes linger too long. Kadar’s choices for him are often bad, but this time, he can’t fault his eyesight. The boy (and really, he’s just a kid) is attractive. Tall and lanky, with the kind of face that doesn’t pinpoint and exact ethnicity. He glances at them with a frown, and Malik gets a view of strangely amber eyes until a customer calls the boy away from them.

 

“He’s a _kid_ ,” Malik argues, tearing his eyes away. “Probably just a freshman.”

 

“That never stopped you before,” Kadar snorts. “What about that girl a few months ago? And that boy after her. Cameron? Was that his name?  Or Chris Something.”

 

He’s casual about this. Always has been. Malik rolls his eyes. Kadar had known about his bisexuality even before Malik himself could understand. His parents had been harder to convince, and Malik still remembers the bittersweet sting of their acceptance—that having one gay (he isn’t even gay) son is alright if they have one straight one to give them grandchildren. Their logic isn’t sound but Malik accepts it because it’s better than being stoned to death, or whatever it is Muslim families do to their less than perfect children.

 

Kadar isn’t perfect because Malik isn’t an idiot to not know what their neighbors say about him. His brother’s blue eyes speak the truth. Who his real father is, Malik doesn’t know nor will his parents speak of it. His father seems not to be bothered by it, but his parents’ relationship has always been more formal than romantic so Malik isn’t surprised.

 

Kadar isn’t perfect. He’s far from it. He’s two years younger than Malik but you would think him younger with his far too boyish face and seemingly innocent eyes. He’s not as smart as Malik but he’s a microbiology major and the fact that he might be a doctor some day is something his parents like to brag about. But he’s naïve and oddly sensitive, and Malik has long learned to swallow his envy with his parents’ treatment of Kadar because it’s still him whom Kadar turns to when he’s troubled.

 

That kind of trust alone is enough.

 

Kadar finishes his meal and they take their leave. Malik doesn’t get a chance to talk to the boy, but he hears his co-worker call his name. _Altair_. His Arabic is rusty but Malik’s able to find the meaning of his name.

 

Flying eagle.

 

It suits him.

 

“I know that look,” Kadar crows. “Taking him home tonight?” He says the last loudly, eyebrows waggling teasingly when Malik looks at their surroundings to check if anyone is listening. A few heads turn but they’re no one Malik knows so he dismisses them.

 

The school year’s just started so the campus grounds are oddly crowded. Freshmen with their too-new-backpacks and too-new sneakers shuffle along with a constantly perplexed expression on their faces, while seniors like Malik run about, laughing as they meet with their friends. The graduate students frown at them disapprovingly but say nothing. After a few weeks, the crowd will thin. The freshmen will become familiar enough with the campus grounds to not get lost, and the older students will most likely be in the library or closeted in their dorm rooms.

 

Malik knows how things go. Trust him. He’s an economics major. He’s actually surprised that they haven’t been loaded with work yet.

 

Connor Kenway passes by, surprisingly built for a freshman. Malik recognizes him for his rucksack, a handmade thing of patched up leather that looks ready to fall apart and which he always carries around with him, a small act of rebellion that Haytham can hardly tolerate. Malik nods at him in greeting but if Connor sees, he doesn’t show it. Their father has a partnership with the Kenways’ company, one that’s been happening since Malik was little, but Connor is a recent addition. Haytham’s illegitimate and only child, brought away from Boston where he’d been raised by his recently deceased mother. Malik pities the poor guy. Haytham is the last person you can associate with the word ‘father’.

 

He was supposed to be Kadar’s roommate but Connor had refused, had been uncomfortable with the idea of rooming with a stranger. Connor had taken Haytham’s offer to house him in one of the university apartments outside the campus, something Kadar had found mildly insulting. His brother got Yusuf instead.

 

“Put the Muslim boys together, yeah?” Malik had said wryly when he’d heard a racist comment from the registrar. “That way it’s easier to watch them in case they’ll turn out to be terrorists.”

 

The registrar had paled upon hearing her words thrown back at her.

 

Malik has a reputation for shredding people with words.

 

He also has, as Kadar lovingly pointed out, a reputation for corrupting the innocents with one-night stands.

 

But he doesn’t take Altair home that night. In fact, it’s months before he even sees Altair again, days before he can gather the courage to talk to him.

 

Altair, Malik will learn, is strangely special.

 

* * *

 

 

“There’s nothing to tell.”

 

* * *

 

 

Malik didn’t expect the idiot to fight back. Most of them don’t once he’s said enough to strip them down to their shame, but even when they do fight back, Malik is ready for it. He took kickboxing classes when he was younger and the fencing classes prior to that did the trick—any stick-like thing can become a deadly weapon in his hands.

 

But he was distracted by Altair. He’s annoyingly distracting and Malik can’t help but blame his stupidly attractive face for the horrible black eye he’ll have in the morning.

 

And damn it, he isn’t even grateful.

 

“Why did you do that?” Altair yells. They’re in the storage room. Malik was puzzled by the judging look Altair’s co-worker had sent him. Now he sees the reason for it. The storage room is dimly lit, cramped with boxes and sacks of flour, and is located far enough in the back that no one will be able to hear them. A quickie room is what Kadar calls places like this.

 

 _If only_. But Malik’s been waiting to get Altair in his bed since he met him and now isn’t the right time, not when Altair looks seconds from hitting him as well.

 

“He called you…” God, Malik can’t even say it. Sand-nigger was one of the words the man had spat when Altair made a mistake in writing down his order. Malik hates racists. He’s colored; he’s been called a terrorist far too many times in his life. Maybe punching that guy wasn’t even for Altair, but for Malik himself.

 

“You were going to fight back yourself,” Malik argues and Altair closes his mouth, chastened. “I did it before you could hit him. You _need_ this job.”

 

“You don’t even know me.”

 

Malik doesn’t have anything to argue with that because it’s the truth. He’s sent a few texts to Altair since he got his number but that’s about it. It’s the slowest Malik’s ever done to get someone in his bed. He usually doesn’t have the patience for it. He treats sex like food, as something that’s a necessity to keep your body going. He isn’t even picky about it. His last serious relationship had been in high school and that’s a disaster that Malik doesn’t like talking about.

 

“I _want_ to get to know you,” Malik says, and Altair scowls.

 

“ _Fine_.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Did you love him, Malik?”

 

He doesn’t even hesitate.

 

“Yes.”

 

* * *

 

 

Altair, Malik learns, is a scholarship student with a major in architecture. “I like buildings,” Altair explains, grinning happily. “When I see one that’s really high, I climb it. Desmond and I used to free climb when we were kids. Still do, actually. William doesn’t approve.”

 

William Miles is Altair’s official guardian, although it’s more a title than a position. After his father died, William became his guardian, being the only relative of Altair in America, although a distant one by blood. He was a military man and a true disciplinarian which is why in spite of the fact that they’re rich enough to provide Altair with a quality education, Altair still has to work for it. Desmond as well. Desmond, William’s only child, is apparently Altair’s best friend, though Ezio likes to exaggerate his importance and claim to be Altair’s real best friend, not his weird cousin.

 

“Who’s Ezio?”

 

“Just some guy,” Altair says. “Met him in a martial arts competition when I was eleven. Kicked his ass but he kept coming back for more.” The grin Altair uses is too fond and Malik can’t help but scowl. The flare of jealousy surprises him. This barely counts as a date. They’re just walking around, drinking overly-prized coffee, and Malik doesn’t really know Altair yet. Still.

 

It’s probably the least exciting date Altair’s ever been to. Malik doesn’t know how dates work anymore, not since he joined Rauf in the whole one-night-stands-are-better thing. But Altair doesn’t seem bothered. He hums quietly when Malik gets him back to his dorm.

 

“Well…” Altair says. He scratches the back of his neck then frowns. “Where does this go?”

 

“What?”

 

“I mean,” Altair continues, huffing when Malik merely stares at him. “Do you want this to become a thing or do you just want to get laid?”

 

Malik blinks. Altair glares at him then says, quietly. “I can’t do one night stands. I had a nice time, though. So…” He looks frustrated with himself, like it’s the first time he’s ever struggled with words.

 

Malik kisses him.

 

Altair’s lips are chapped and rough but unresisting. Day old stubble scratches Malik’s chin when he pulls Altair closer, Altair’s hands immediately gripping his shoulders for support. He’s inexperienced and a little thrill goes through Malik when he remembers Altair telling him that he’s never dated anyone. This, Malik thinks with pride, is probably Altair’s first kiss. And he seems to be enjoying it.

 

It’s broken when the door swings open and Desmond Miles steps out, eyes widening comically when he sees them.

 

“Oh my god,” he splutters, slamming the door shut again.

 

Altair shoves him back, face reddening. He turns to follow Desmond but Malik grabs him by the hand to stop him.

 

“Go out with me again.”

 

Altair’s brows furrow. “What?”

 

“Another date, you idiot,” Malik hisses, because god, he’s not used to this and it’s more frightening than any unstudied exam he’s ever taken. _What are you doing, Malik? Stop._ “And another one after that.”

 

The smile Altair gives him is sunshine-bright, the most genuine he’s ever seen.

 

He’s absolutely hooked.

 

* * *

 

 

“No more.”

 

The therapist looks up from her little notebook. She frowns at him, her red mouth pulling downwards comically. Malik scowls at her. “I don’t want to talk about Altair anymore,” he growls.

 

This display of anger won’t help. She’ll ask more questions, he knows. But not now. She glances at the wall clock behind him then nods. “Seems that our time is up, Malik,” she says, smiling. Malik does not smile back. He doesn’t like how she uses his first name like they’re friends, like if she says it often enough, he’ll do what he knows she wants him to do. Cry into her shoulder and tell her about Kadar, about Altair, about how everything fucking hurts.

 

Malik won’t give her the satisfaction.

 

When he steps outside, Connor is still waiting. He’s seated on the bench, hood up and looking far too intimidating for conversation. It’s all for show. Malik knows it; Altair taught him that. When Malik comes close enough he looks up and tries a small smile.

 

They don’t talk. Connor’s company is the easiest to swallow because Connor doesn’t ask questions, not after Malik made it clear that he doesn’t want to discuss what happened because he already has a fucking therapist for that. Besides, Malik can’t get rid of him even if he wants to. The Kenways are too tied to the Al-Sayfs for Connor to disappear from his life.

 

He can’t talk to Ezio because Ezio was Altair’s friend first and the guy must hate him. Desmond is also out of the question, his loyalty fixed on his cousin. Rauf comes by every now and then to keep him company while he recovers. Yusuf, Malik avoids. He doesn’t want to see Kadar’s best friend. He wants to see his brother alive and happy. Not…not dead.

 

And Altair…Not Altair, definitely not Altair. He must hate him and Malik still isn’t sure if he hates Altair for what happened. He wants to blame someone for Kadar’s death and Altair was unlucky enough to be there. Besides…Altair’s better off without him anyway.

 

Anyone’s better off without a cripple.

 

* * *

 

 

“Wow, this is a really big step, Malik.”

 

“So I shouldn’t do it?” Malik raises one eyebrow in disbelief. The ring sits on the table before them. It’s a simple silver band with a few swirls engraved in its surface. It looks practical and the jeweler had told him that it’s a classic, but Malik’s already beginning to have doubts.

 

About the ring, about how he’ll say it, about the whole thing really.

 

_What if he doesn’t say yes?_

 

Kadar snorts loudly. “You and Altair have been together for way too long. I’m surprised you didn’t do it three months after meeting each other. You’re attached to the hip.” He smirks. “Well, mouth actually.”

 

Malik pushes him and Kadar laughs. “I’m your best man, yeah?” he says while Malik traps him in a headlock. “Promise?”

 

“Yeah, you big baby,” Malik replies with a grin. “I promise.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're wondering if this is just about Altair and Malik, Connor and Ezio have their own problems and their own chapters. Don't worry about Desmond. He's a big boy, he can take care of himself.


End file.
